


Cold

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-12-23
Updated: 2000-12-23
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11125266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Fraser has a secret.





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

(Cold)

 

 

Pairings: Fraser/Male, Fraser/Kowalski (kinda)  
  
Rating: NC-17 for disturbing content. Read at your own risk.  
  
Spoilers: The usual ones for "Victoria's Secret" and "Mountie  
on the Bounty." Takes place the day after "Easy Money."  
  
Disclaimers: Not mine, godammit. All recognizable characters belong to  
Alliance.  
  
Webpage: http://www.fortunecity.com/marina/victory/718/index.htm  
  
Mood Music: If I listed all the songs that inspired/motivated me while  
writing this, the list would end up being longer than the story itself.  
Lots of Nick Cave, Switchblade Symphony, PJ Harvey, the Cure, Joy Division,  
Pig, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  
  
Very, very special thanks to Kim for helping me beat this into submission  
on several occasions and for her encouragement. I could not have finished  
this without her. This is for her, even though I'm sure she has it memorized  
by now and is going to have to go through years of therapy that I'm very  
glad I don't have to pay for. =)  
  
Feedback will be very appreciated at  
 ** _  
_**  
Caveat lector, reader beware. Expilict warnings can be found  
at the end of the story.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*  
Cold  
by Giuliana  
*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Everyone has his or her own dark secret. For some it concerns an incident  
in their past, an event they hide for fear of being scorned or perceived  
differently. For others it concerns present activities, their current  
sins and transgressions; the things they do when they believe no one  
is watching. Of course, some things are more serious than others. The  
person whose vice involves the viewing of what some may call salacious  
material is far less serious than that of the police officer who spends  
his weekends in the red light district, or of the high school teacher  
who glares lecherously at his teenaged students. Nevertheless, despite  
the varying magnitudes of their sins, all human beings are flawed and  
have their vices. And I -- although I am sure some of my acquaintances  
would beg to differ -- am human, and as a result, I am one of those flawed  
individuals. In fact, my vices are amongst the most depraved.  
  
I know what I do is wrong; I know it is morally, ethically unacceptable.  
Knowing this, however, does not stop me. Each time, like now, just before  
I perform this vile act, my mind tells me to stop, to simply leave the  
room, to push away my dark desires. Yet, each time those desires triumph  
over reason. Even so, it remains a losing battle that I cannot help fighting.  
  
And here I am once again, standing in the doorway of the 27th district's  
morgue, mere meters from sin.  
  
When I first began to engage in this licentious behavior, I felt as though  
I knew my motivations and reasons. But as time has passed, those motivations  
and reasons have become vague, muddy, and clumped together in a juxtaposition  
of mangled whys and wherefores. The act itself has become a compulsion  
I no longer feel I have the ability to control, and sometimes I am not  
sure I want to.  
  
I breathe in the cold air deeply, welcoming it, tasting it on my tongue,  
taking comfort from it. The station above me is silent: everyone who  
was there earlier went home hours ago. I step farther into the dark room,  
closing the door quietly behind me. I do not know why I'm afraid of making  
any noise; I am alone. Well, in a way.  
  
I reach over and easily find the light switch. The bright whiteness of  
the fluorescent lights fills the room, and I blink several times to adjust  
my eyes. I see the object of my sin in the middle of the room and feel  
arousal shoot through my body.  
  
*****  
  
It happened a little before five this evening. Ray and I had just left  
the Consulate and were driving along the streets of Chicago in the Pontiac  
GTO Ray acquired from his parents yesterday, when Diefenbaker emitted  
a whine unquestionable in meaning. I can only assume Ray was concerned  
about his black leather interior, as he pulled over immediately. He was  
in the middle of a tirade concerning Diefenbaker's failure to urinate  
before leaving the Consulate, when the sound of gunfire came from the  
apartment structure across the street. Ray and I, with Diefenbaker on  
our heels, quickly made our way to the building, taking the stairs on  
the possibility a resident along the way might be of some assistance  
to us. Fortunately, on the third floor we encountered a frightened, elderly  
Hispanic woman. After we identified ourselves, she directed us to room  
312\. Ray knocked on the door, and when there was no answer to his call  
to open it, he tried the doorknob.  
  
The door opened, and inside we found a young woman no more than 18 years  
old curled up around herself on the living room floor, clutching a gun.  
Ray crouched down and gently and slowly talked her into surrendering  
the weapon. After the girl shakily sat up and handed him the gun, she  
began to cry. Diefenbaker went over to her and licked the tears running  
down her cheeks, and because the girl's bedclothes-like attire left nothing  
in the way of modesty, I covered her with a patchwork quilt I found on  
a nearby chair. Leaving the girl with Diefenbaker and me, Ray inspected  
the rest of the apartment. When he walked into what appeared to be the  
bedroom, I heard a sharp curse and then the sound of him speaking on  
his cellular phone. Afterwards, Ray returned to the living room and told  
the girl to stand facing the wall with her hands behind her back.  
  
While Ray handcuffed and read the girl her rights, I walked into the  
bedroom. On the bed lay a nude man in his twenties, eyes closed as if  
asleep. A deep crimson stain covered most of the white bed sheets, and  
I saw that he had been shot once in the chest. It appeared to be the  
only wound, but it had been more than enough to kill him; there's no  
possibility someone could have survived after losing so much blood. But  
what grasped my attention the fullest was the striking attractiveness  
of the man. I walked closer to the bed and reached out, touching the  
still warm forehead. My hand slid down his face, fingers tracing the  
lax lips that had yet to undergo the hardening effects of rigor mortis.  
I quickly withdrew my hand when Ray entered the room. I looked at him  
closely, searching for any sign that he had witnessed what had just transpired,  
but I found no evidence that he had. We stood there for a moment, Ray  
looking everywhere but the body, me looking at the body by means of my  
peripheral vision. Then Ray cleared his throat, cocked his head to the  
side, and said we should return to the suspect. After a short pause that  
I don't believe Ray noticed, I nodded in agreement and followed him,  
glancing over my shoulder as we exited the bedroom.  
  
Less than an hour later, we had a full confession from the girl, one  
Julia Caldwell. With very little questioning, Ms. Caldwell admitted to  
killing her boyfriend, Timothy Larson. The homicide occurred shortly  
after the couple had made love: while Mr. Larson was sleeping, Ms. Caldwell  
took the victim's own .45 caliber pistol and shot him at close range.  
As for the motive, Ms. Caldwell said she had recently discovered that  
Mr. Larson had been involved sexually with one of her good friends for  
some time. In the end, the murder turned out to be a simple case of jealousy  
gone deadly.  
  
*****  
  
Those are the events that have brought me to where I am now. At least  
they are the events that have brought me to the station at this late  
hour. The events that have brought me to the point of seeking comfort  
in this manner are�complicated. I cannot pinpoint the exact moment  
I first experienced the craving, and neither can I identify the origins  
of my desire. I suppose it was always there, always a part of my being,  
hidden deep within my psyche. And while I cannot recall the first time  
I felt it, I can remember clearly the first time I gave into the temptation,  
over fifteen years ago now.  
  
*****  
  
I was a new officer with the RCMP then and stationed in Norman Wells,  
where I shared a two bedroom cabin with a friend. Steve Kakfwi. One night  
upon returning from an excursion, I found him there, lying on the kitchen  
floor, pupils dilated, mouth open. I immediately dropped to my knees  
and checked for a pulse. Nothing. The dark olive skin under my fingertips  
was already cool, almost cold. Then something inside me�snapped,  
and I was running my hands over his face, under his shirt, inside his  
pants, stripping off our clothing, lifting his legs, finding little resistance  
when I entered him.  
  
After I was finished, I barely made it to the kitchen sink before I vomited  
the contents of my supper.  
  
That night I cried harder than I have ever cried, before or since.  
  
I cried for the loss of my friend.  
  
I cried for the loss of myself.  
  
As I cleaned and redressed him, I vowed that I would never do something  
so indecent again.  
  
In the years following Steve's death and my loss of control, I held my  
desires in a tight grip, not allowing them to come to the surface. And  
I was successful...  
  
Until I met her -- the woman whose skin was as cold as the snow that  
surrounded us on Fortitude Pass, the woman who inadvertently reawakened  
my desires. Victoria was alive, but her body felt like ice to me. Her  
frozen fingers were slender icicles that I was certain were going to  
melt in the cavity of my mouth. She didn't protest as I moved against  
her coldness, and it didn't bother me to be unsure if she could protest  
if she so chose.  
  
It was, in a word, perfect.  
  
Then ten years later, I found her again, and her body was no longer like  
ice.  
  
But her heart still was.  
  
I, however, was so focused on what had been that I did not completely  
realize this until later, until it was too late and the damage was already  
done -- to my friendship with Ray Vecchio, to my body, to my own heart.  
  
The first two have healed. The third has not.  
  
After my physical condition was restored, I found myself making regular  
visits to the morgue, something I had never done before. It was then  
when the cold became not only a means of sexual release but also a means  
of protection. The cold shields me from the pain of warmth -- the rejection,  
the betrayal, the burning.  
It has become both my salvation and  
my damnation.  
  
*****  
  
I walk over to the table and slowly pull back the green morgue sheet.  
Once again, I am transfixed by how handsome Timothy Larson is. His hair  
is dark, cut short. His black eyelashes stand out vividly against his  
fair complexion. His skin as a whole is exquisite, beautifully pale and  
nearly without blemish -- that is, if you ignore the almost expertly  
placed bullet wound over his heart. Mort has yet to do the customary  
autopsy due to both the late time Larson was brought in tonight and the  
obviousness of the cause of death. His body is completely and wonderfully  
intact, which will make this easier for me.  
  
I run my hand over the smooth-sharp cheekbone, down to the full, now  
blue-tinted mouth, which is no longer as soft as it was just a few hours  
earlier; the beginning signs of rigor mortis have begun to materialize.  
I lean down and kiss the cold lips. Surprisingly, they open easily under  
my mouth. The sensation causes my mind to go back to several weeks previous  
when my tongue slid between a pair of similarly cold lips, lips that  
belonged to a person running out of air. Lips that belonged to a person  
who might have ended up on a metal slab similar to this one had I not  
opened that sweet, soft, cold mouth and _breathed_ , filling those  
hungry lungs with much needed oxygen.  
  
I shake myself mentally. This is not Ray. This body, these lips are cold  
not because of the frigid waters of Lake Superior, but because of death.  
The lungs within this body gave up their need for air when a bullet punctured  
the heart. I lightly finger the wound, and the temptation to duck my  
head and taste the dried blood is nearly uncontrollable. I long to have  
the sharp, iron flavor on my tongue, but I stop myself, my rational mind  
momentarily taking control. Instead, I lick around the hole, noting that  
the substance used to clean the body did little to mar the distinctive  
saltiness of flesh and the slight residual taste of blood.  
  
I quickly remove my shoes, my socks, my sweater, my jeans, and finally  
my boxers, and gently lie down on top of the nude body, being mindful  
not to put too much weight on it. I moan as the ice cold flesh comes  
into direct contact with my own warm skin. Again, my mind flashes back  
involuntarily, back to the memory of snow, Victoria losing consciousness,  
and the euphoria and terror I felt as those desires I had struggled to  
contain resurfaced while I held her cold, unresisting body against mine.  
  
I rub my erect penis against the body's flaccid one, gripping the hips.  
I move slowly at first, but my thrusts gradually become harder and faster.  
Then, as I approach orgasm, something pushes away the memories of Victoria  
and ice. It's not an image per se, but more a collection of phantom touches  
and sensations I experience mentally, yet feel physically: the lacerated  
heart within the still chest beating again, so fast, so strong; the muscular  
arms coming around me, hands rubbing my back, short nails digging into  
my skin; the penis firming against mine, hips beginning to thrust; the  
skin warming, becoming hot -- so hot it feels like I'm going to melt  
and meld with the flesh against mine.  
  
I open my eyes, and I swear for a moment that I see a different body  
under mine, a different, yet well-known face. Bright blue eyes look at  
me with desire, and small beads of sweat trickle down lightly golden  
skin. A long neck arches back, and then a soft-looking mouth opens, my  
name silently spilling out.  
  
I seize and then still, groaning softly as the warm wetness of semen  
seeps between Ray's -- no, not Ray's, _Larson's_ \-- body and mine.  
I lie motionless for a moment, and then, after a few deep breaths, I  
lift myself up. I grab a small towel and a pair of latex gloves from  
the supply rack, and I use the former to clean Larson and myself. I frown  
when I notice the indentations my fingers have left on his hips; I wasn't  
careful enough this time, and I hope Mort won't notice the marks when  
he performs the autopsy. I sigh and put the gloves on, depositing the  
towel in the medical trash bin, carefully placing it under several others.  
The gloves follow shortly after.  
  
I dress myself at a slightly slower rate than I disrobed and place a  
soft kiss on Larson's lips before covering him up again with the sheet.  
I exit the room, turning the lights off as I leave. I almost expect to  
see Ray outside, but the corridor is empty, and I'm surprised to feel  
somewhat disappointed to find he's not there.  
  
I smile, but it's not from joy. Very far from it actually. Ray would  
never understand this aspect of my life. I don't completely understand  
it myself, so how could I expect him to understand?  
  
For over a year, the cold and only the cold was enough for me. While  
there were occasions where I almost sought out the company of warmth,  
I never crossed the line. Fear was enough to hold me back. But lately  
I've found myself wanting and desiring warmth more than I ever have before,  
and while it's so close, so close all I have to do is reach out and touch  
it, I cannot do it. I know I cannot have both, the cold and the warmth.  
I am unable to obtain the strength to relinquish my addiction, and because  
of this, I will remain with the cold, taking my comfort from cold flesh  
in cold rooms, while Ray Kowalski glows brightly with life, promise,  
and the warmth I cannot touch.  
  
The hallway is hot compared to the morgue, but I still feel cold.  
  
Finis.  
  
********************  
Warnings: Necrophilia. Heh.  
  
Inspiration: The one and only Poppy Z. Brite's masterpiece _Exquisite  
Corpse_. Although compared to that, this story looks like _Clifford,  
the Big Red Dog_...okay, maybe not *that* vanilla, but you get the picture.  
  
  
  
  



End file.
